


Unstop the Day

by SnowboundMermaid



Category: How I Met Your Mother
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-15 22:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowboundMermaid/pseuds/SnowboundMermaid
Summary: Love, grief, life, death, friendship and spiked popsicles.





	1. The End Has Come and Found Us Here

**Westchester, 2030**

Kids, the year after your mom died was the worst year of my life. I was sad, I was angry, and I didn't know how I was going to keep on living without her. The only thing that came even close was the year before, when we knew we were going to lose her. I, well, I wasn't myself for a long time, because she took a part of me with her. She left part of herself, though, in the two of you, and I wanted -and still want- to be the best I can be, for you. That took a while, and I couldn't have done it without your aunts and uncles. A lot of what happened that year wasn't anything kids could understand, but, as your aunts and uncles have been telling me for a while now, you're not exactly kids anymore. Your mom would be so, so proud of the young woman and young man you're becoming, and she'd probably tell me you're old enough to hear some of the things you've probably been wondering about for a while.

Before you ask, no, I do not want to go out on a date with anybody right now. I'm not saying that I never will, because that's a normal and natural thing for a single person to want. As much as I am always going to love your mother, and nobody is ever going to come up to her standard, not if I live to be a hundred, one thing that first year reminded me was that love is an infinite resource. I know your mom gave me enough to last the rest of my life, but that first year was a rough one, especially the first six months. before any of us found our bearings. Then we hit July. Did I say July? If it was July, then that would make it eight months. Or was it June? I know it was summer, because that's when I found the popsicles in the basement freezer. Before either of you get any bright ideas, I am going to tell you, right now, that I moved them earlier this morning. No, I am not telling you where, although there are not a lot of options, but I counted them, and if there are any missing, I will know where they went. When you're twenty-one, you can have your own popsicles, in your own refrigerators, in your own apartments. The way life goes, you're probably going to need them, or at least want them, at some point, but please indulge responsibly, and make sure you always share them with friends as good as your aunts and uncles.

You know what, it was July, because of the fireworks, and I do not mean only the ones on Independence Day. Now, I wasn't my best self, and I wasn't exactly present for everything, so I may have to fill in some blanks, but from what I've been able to piece together, the turning point was one night in July, no, wait, June. It had to be June, because it wasn't Canada Day yet. Canada Day, then Independence Day, then, no, I'm getting ahead of myself. Actually, it all started on the day of the funeral, but that night in June was a fork in the road, that determined the course we were all going to take, only we didn't know it then.

 

**Westchester, June, 2024**

Robin tugs the strap of her sundress back onto her shoulder and pulls the patio door open. There's no breeze to cool off the night. She takes the elastic from her wrist and wrangles her hair into some semblance of a ponytail. Air on her neck is marginally better. Barney has already taken his usual position, leaning against the railing, jacket off, collar open, sleeves rolled back, his attention focused on something off in the trees. Maybe the neighbor's dog. Maybe their pool. He has a popsicle, a white one, at least as far as she can tell under the porch light. Popsicles aren't usually white, except for the coconut kind. She's not sure she's up to a coconut popsicle; too many memories attached to those.  
"Hey." She takes her first step onto the patio and lets the door close behind her. "What flavor is that popsicle?"

Barney slides the popsicle from his mouth and extends the item in question toward her. "Gin and tonic."

"There aren't any such thing as gin and tonic popsicles."

"Uh, there are, if you pour gin and tonic into popsicle molds and stick them in the back of the freezer."

She can't fault his logic, but the past months of extra aunt duties brings her mind around to the most important consideration. "What if Penny or Luke found them?"

Barney shakes his head. "I put these bad boys in the basement freezer, behind the big bag of mixed vegetables. Kids are never going to look there."

They aren't. "I'm surprised you looked there."

Barney shrugs. "Necessity is the mother of invention. " He extends the popsicle to Robin. "Want to share? You look like you could use some."

Robin hesitates, then takes the popsicle. He's right. She could. "Thanks." She takes an experimental lick. He always did mix a good drink. "This isn't your last one, is it?"

"Pfft. Please. I got nine more. I made these while you and Penny were at that," he waves his now-empty hand in a vague gesture. "That thing."

"You mean Girl Scouts?" She probably should ask where Luke was while Barney was making adult popsicles. Probably. She files that question away for later.

Barney drops into the cushioned embrace of the glider. "If that's the one with the cookies, then yes. How'd it go?"

"It was Penny's first mother-daughter tea with her aunt, if that's what you're asking. She did okay. The other girls were nice. Didn't make a big deal of it." She takes another lick of the popsicle, lets the tangy bite of lime sit on her tongue. "Penny did ask an interesting question on the way back, though."

Barney grimaces and rubs at the back of his neck, his expression grim. If anybody understands what this afternoon was like for Penny, it's the guy who went to father-son events with a succession of uncles, or not at all. "If this has anything to do with becoming a woman, I don't want to hear it." One push of his foot sets the glider into motion. "Isn't she kind of young for that sort of thing?"

"By a few years, I hope." Robin repositions the elastic, hikes the ponytail higher onto the crown of her head. That's better. She doesn't care how it looks. "But that actually might have been easier to answer. She wanted to know if you and I are dating."

The glider stops. "Why does Penny think we're dating?"

She's going to have to sit for this, or she's going to lose her nerve. "Shove over."

Barney scoots over to the other end of the glider. He smells like sweat and citrus and fresh-cut grass, not that he actually does any of the mowing. Ted does the mowing, more often than the grass strictly needs, probably, but Ted needs to mow, so he does. A lot. Barney distracts Luke, to keep him out of the way, when Ted mows, because Luke is nuts for anything with a motor, including but not limited to lawnmowers, both riding and push. Ted has both, but Barney knows magic tricks, so the distraction works. The lawn guy will be here at seven to see if they can salvage what's left, or if they need to lay down an entirely new lawn. Barney is going to have to be the one to break that news, if there really is no fixing the original lawn. It's a guy thing.

That's tomorrow, though. Ted, Luke, and Penny are all in bed now, and it's only the two of them, Barney and her, the way it usually is this time on a Saturday night. "Because we always come out from the city together, we only ever take one car, and we always talk about who's going to stay at whose apartment so nobody has to go across town that late at night."

"Those are practical arrangements. We're the only ones who live in Manhattan anymore." He elbows her in the ribs. "Popsicle."

Robin hands it over. The tip of Barney's tongue flicks over the tip, near a sliver of lime. She could watch that all night. "That's what I told her, which was when she told me she saw you put your arm around me at the movies last night."

"How could she see that? It was dark."

"Maybe don't wear a white shirt to the movies next time?"

"Maybe, " he paused for another lick, "next time," and another, "I won't wear any shirt."

Robin aims a playful shove at his shoulder. "I don't think they let shirtless guys in their forties into Disney movies."

Barney is quiet for a long moment. "Yeah, that does sound creepy. Also itchy. Those seat covers are not meant for bare skin. Do not ask me how I know. It's enough that I do." He fiddles with the roll of his sleeve. "What did you tell her?"  
She pries the popsicle from Barney's grasp and runs her tongue along the length. "That if she dropped the subject right then, I would take her to Sephora and buy her lip gloss."

"Did that work?"

"For about fifteen minutes. It was sparkly lip gloss. Strawberry flavored. I figured that would buy me more time."

Barney nods. "Sparkly strawberry lip gloss should get you at least an hour. What'd you tell her this time?"

A drop of melted popsicle runs down her chin. She dashes it away with the back of her hand. "I told her it's a grownup question and we would talk about it later. Then we got ice cream."

"If you got ice cream, you don't need a popsicle. Give." He motions for her to hand it over.

She angles herself and the popsicle away from him. "Gin and tonic popsicle, I do need. Go get your own. You already said you have nine others."

Barney settles back into the green and white gingham cushions of the glider and kicks off his shoes. He isn't going anywhere. That's a good sign. Probably. "Nah. I don't want to go all the way to the basement."

"Because Ted turns the lights off when you're down there by yourself?"

One corner of Barney's mouth twitches. He toes off his socks. They drop to the patio and disappear in the shadows. "I wasn't afraid, the first time. I was surprised. Ever since then, I've been playing along. He thinks it's funny, and I like to hear him laugh. I think turning off the light that first time was the first time he's done something for fun, since Tracy," he rubs at the back of his neck, and lets out a long breath, "since things got bad."

Robin's tongue hits a sliver of lime. "I think so."

"So, are we?" Barney's question hangs in the warm night air.

She could use some wind, something to whisk the sweat from her skin. A handkerchief, maybe. Barney probably has one. She could ask for it. She doesn't. That's not the most important question she has right now. "Are we what?"

"Dating?"

Robin has to think. Loaded word, that dating. "We haven't gone on any dates. "

"We've been out to dinner like a million times. We go out all the time."

"With Ted or the kids. Sometimes both. It's never just us." Family outings only, to the store, the pool, the library, the movies, museums, busy busy busy busy busy busy.

Barney opens another button on his shirt and fans himself with the fabric. "If you count snacks at rest stops, we have a standing date twice a week. So, twice a week, times," his face compresses in concentration, "I lost track of how many weeks. Every week, right?"

"Yeah, every week." Every week since the funeral, since the first time she saw him, stone-jawed and alone at the church door, the collar of his black wool coat turned up against the November chill. She doesn't want to count how many rest stop sandwiches they've shared, but it's become part of the routine by now. She never asks for his order, and he never asks for hers, because it's automatic now. One of them stakes out a table near the window and the other one gets the food, and then they talk, the way they used to talk, back when things were good. Those aren't dates, really. Those are rest stops. Time to stretch their legs, halfway between Manhattan and Westchester, or Westchester and Manhattan, depending on the direction of their travel. Time to get a quick bite and use the bathroom. They aren't dates. Neither are the breakfasts they make for each other when one of them sleeps over, the visitor always on the couch, never the bed. Neither are the hospital cafeteria lunches. Technically, she doesn't even eat at half of those. Coconut popsicles aren't technically food. "Think you could make a pina colada popsicle?"

"Easy," he says, a split second before the patio door creaks open.

Robin tosses the popsicle into the bushes.


	2. This Year's Love

Westchester, June, 2024

"What are you guys doing?" Ted's voice carries in the night air. His hair sticks out in odd directions on one side of his head, and lies flat on the other. He's dressed in madras plaid pajama pants, blue and orange and pink and green still bright under the patio lights, and a t-shirt so faded that Robin can't read the logo, pillow and blanket tucked under his arm. It's too hot for a blanket, even a light one, which means he'll be sleeping on the blanket, wherever he finally lands, not under it. His feet are bare, in clear violation of the rule about no sweaty bare feet on the hardwood floors.

  
Robin pushes herself out of the glider and smooths her skirt. "Um, talking. Just talking."

Ted scratches his chin. His beard is getting into uncharted territory, not that that's a bad thing. The fullness suits him. There's white in it now. Tracy would have liked the white. "Am I interrupting something? I can go back inside if I'm interrupting something."

Barney cuts Robin a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. The silent question comes through loud and clear. Is he? She doesn't respond. He smooths a wrinkle from his sleeve. The eyebrow drops. They'll talk about this later. That comes through loud and clear, too. "Dude, it's your house. You can't interrupt anything." He abandons the glider, his socks clutched in one hand, and gestures to one of the patio chairs. "Hang out with us."

Ted shifts pillow and blanket to his other arm. "What are you talking about?" Robin's skin itches at even the thought of a blanket in this sticky heat.

"Popsicles," Barney says, and reaches for his discarded socks in the shadows beneath the glider.

"Girl Scouts," Robin says at the same time. Crap. "Girl Scout popsicles. We talked about Girl Scout popsicles at Penny's meeting, before the tea. Shapes and flavors and that kind of thing. Well, not me. I didn't talk about Girl Scout popsicles. The Girl Scouts did. Their leader. Some of the moms. They talked about selling Girl Scout popsicles during the summer, like the cookies, but they're probably not going to do it. Too melty." At least that much isn't a lie. She wipes sticky fingers on the folds of her skirt. The temptation to lick the popsicle juice from them is strong.

  
Ted's face scrunches in confusion. "Girl Scout popsicles are a stupid idea." He turns to Robin. "You have to sleep in my bed tonight."

"Why?" Robin's pulse races. She'd slept in Ted's bed, a lot, in another life. Also more-than-slept in Ted's bed, also a lot. That's not what he means now. It can't be. In some weird alternate universe, sure, maybe she might have gone on sleeping and more-than-sleeping in Ted's bed, long enough so that his bed here would be her bed here. Their bed here, their room, their house, their kids. Their life. He'd believed it so damned much, at one point, that she'd thought maybe she could believe it, too, but only that. Only thought, only maybe. Only almost. The image won't form, no matter how hard she tries to conjure it now. It never did. It never would. Part of her wishes it could. Maybe, if she'd been the girl Twentysomething Ted tried to convince her she was, they'd have lasted, and he'd be happy now. Her, maybe not so much, but him, that might be worth it. He'd be whole, not empty, have that dazzled, hopeless romantic look in his eyes, instead of the hollow flatness that lived there now.

Ted swipes a hand over his face. "Because it was hot, and I asked Tracy if she wanted the window open or the air conditioner on, before I remembered she's not there. She's not going to be there, so I'm going to sleep in the guest room and you have to sleep in my bed. I already moved the pillows. That okay?"

"Sure. That's great. Go sleep." It's not great, not even okay, but there isn't any other answer she can give. It's Ted. It's Ted-and-not-Tracy, and she gets that. It sucks. If giving him her bed makes it suck less, then okay, she can do that.  
Ted drops his gaze to Barney's feet. "No bare feet on the hardwood. House rule." Full dad voice on that one, the voice that takes no argument.

Barney holds up both socks, clutched in one hand. "Got these." He jabs his other thumb over his shoulder. "Shoes are over there."

"Okay, then." Ted nods once, He shifts pillow and blanket back to their original position, and melts back inside. The patio doors close behind him with a click.

"Think he locked us out here again?" Barney shakes out one sock and rolls back the cuff.  
Robin casts an assessing glance at the door handle. She's not going to rule that out. Ted's locked her and Barney out on the patio before. before. It wouldn't be the end of the world. It's not snowing, for one thing. Lack of snow should make the whole getting back inside process a lot easier. One of them would climb over the railing, go around to the back door, and let the other one back inside. "The glider should be okay for sleeping, right?" Maybe it could rock her to sleep. That might actually help.

Barney drops into the seat again and props one foot on the opposite knee. He positions the cuff of the sock over his toes. "For one person, maybe. Which person are you thinking? Because if it's me, I am not putting socks back on in this humidity."

"Forget the socks." She lets out a long breath and pulls the elastic from her hair, then combs through it with her fingers. It falls to the tops of her shoulders, heavy and damp. Sweaty scalp or sweaty neck, those are the options, until she can get into the shower. Sweaty scalp it is. She wrangles her hair into a knot at the crown of her head. Most of it stays. Good enough. She catches Barney staring, out of the corner of her eye. "What are you looking at?" She takes the elastic out and positions the knot further down, at the base of her skull.  
"You." He sets both socks on the seat next to him. His foot drops to the ground. "You went kind of gray in the face there when Ted asked you to sleep in his bed. Do you want me to take Ted's bed, and you can have mine?"

She tries to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors. "I am not gray in the face." No luck. Ted left the light on inside. Perfect view of the couch and knicknacks on the shelf; family photos, kids' art, Tracy's yellow schoolbus, but no reflection. She turns back to Barney. "I'm just tired." Wherever that popsicle landed, it is well past the five second rule. By now, it's probably a puddle of gin and tonic, and a soggy slice of lime, an army of ants already buzzed on its remains. Doesn't mean she wouldn't still consider taking a lick. Maybe. Of course Barney couldn't just have a flask like a normal person. Maybe he did, in his jacket, but he hung that up hours ago, in the hall closet. "Your bed out here is at your dad's house."

"He won't mind. He loves you. Cheryl, too. That is, Cheryl loves you, not that my dad loves Cheryl, but he does; that's why he married her. Couple of honeymooners, those two. I could text him." Both brows flash upwards. Not quite puppy dog eyes, but close. Hopeful. Willing.

Part of her wants to take him up on the offer, just for that look. Get out of sleeping in Ted's bed, and make Barney smile, that's tempting. Those are both good things. She plops onto the seat next to him. There's barely a hand's width of seat between them. She could put her hand on his if she wanted. "No, it's late." She should be taking him to his dad's house about now. Somebody should. Maybe Ted could use the drive. Maybe she could just toss Barney the keys and curl up here on the glider. He'd complain about having to drive himself, complain about having to drive at night, complain about having to drive a car that wasn't even American, complain about having to drive anything, anytime, anywhere, but he couldn't do much about that if she rolled over and closed her eyes right away. Either he'd suck it up and make the drive, or he'd have Jerry come get him. She wouldn't care, because she'd be asleep. She'd have to sleep in makeup and bra, though, which does not sound at all appealing. Maybe they should go back to using the car service. Maybe they could even get Ranjit to drive them himself, special, for old times sake. He would, if she asked.  
"Doesn't matter. Dad waits up for me. They're empty nesting pretty hard since JJ moved out. Cheryl just did laundry. Everythng's clean."

Sleeping in the guest room at Barney's dad's house, in Barney's sheets, Barney's scent all around her, would probably be worse than stretching out on Ted's duvet cover. Cheryl might have done laundry, but that only meant fresh sheets and towels. It wouldn't do anything to erase the unmistakable Eau de Barney that would permeate the room as long as the house remained standing. Even sheets and towels right out of the dryer, a quick swipe of the furniture with wood polish, and that fancy air freshener Cheryl liked wouldn't get rid of any of the memories. None of that has even a chance of working, but she's still tempted. "I can't sleep at your dad's house. I have to be here for the lawn guy. He's coming first thing in the morning."

"I could handle the lawn guy."

Robin shakes her head. "You can't handle the lawn guy."

Barney splays one hand over his heart, in mock affront. "You don't think I can handle the lawn guy? Because I can handle the lawn guy."

If it were a lawn girl, then maybe Barney could work some magic, probably get a discount, Definitely get a phone number, possibly even a date, if he wanted a date, since he wouldn't be the actual client. Unless Penny is right and Barney is already dating, um, someone. Robin's still not sure on that front. If the lawn guy brings a lawn girl, she's telling them both to come back on a weekday, even if that means an extra trip for her. "As much as I would love to see you handle the lawn guy, it has to be me. He's afraid of me. He's not entirely convinced I'm not filming his every move." Granted, there will not be a WWN van in the driveway this time, but she can still make it work. She pushes the glider into motion. "It'll be fine."

 

Westchester, 2030

It wasn't fine.

 

Westchester, June 2024

"You sure?" Barney scoots closer, only half a hand's width apart now. Another inch, and they'll be on the same cushion. "I can stay."

"What about your dad and Cheryl?"

Barney settles back into the glider cushion and props one ankle on the opposite knee. "They'll be fine. Seriously, I'll stay. We can take them out to dinner before we head home."

"Nope. Pizza with Ted and the kids. You promised Luke."

"So we take everybody and get the big pizza. It'll work."

It probably would. Robin kicks off her shoes and draws her legs up onto the seat. She's not taking him anywbere tonight. It's not a decision as much as an acceptance. Fact. She can't fight facts. She focuses on the big citronella candle next to the grill so that she can't see Barney's phone screen.

His face scrunches in concentration as his fingers tap out his message on the screen. He hits send. "There. Done. I am all yours for the night."

A shiver slithers along the base of her neck. All hers for the night. That could mean a lot of things. Her toes tingle.

Barney's phone pings with an incoming text. Of course Jerry would have the phone right there. Barney's mouth tugs up at the corners. He taps out his reply and hits send. Jerry's reply comes right away. Barney replies with only one tap this time, maybe an emote. He drops the phone into his pocket. "They'll meet us at the pizza place. Dad'll pack my bag. Seriously, you okay?"

She lets out a long breath. Loose bits of hair ruffled about her face. "Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Robin." He doesn't have to say anything else. "There is a perfectly good, or should I say, once perfectly good gin and tonic popsicle in the bushes that says otherwise."

Fair enough. He's right. "I panicked. Whatever it is you and I are doing, while we're supposed to be helping one of our best friends through the loss of his wife, it's so obvious a nine year old can spot it. There's only so much lip gloss and ice cream I can throw at that kid before she connects the dots."

Barney's mouth spreads in a slow grin. "So you admit there are dots."

_So many dots._ "I'm not admitting anything. Okay, maybe Ted coming out at that particular time, with that particular request caught me a little off guard."

"Off guard? You call throwing the popsicle I slaved over a cold freezer to make, into the bushes, off gaurd?"

Maybe instinct was a better word, but she's said what she's said. She's not backing down from that. "Yes."

Barney shrugs. "Fair enough. You know one of us is going to have to get in that bush and get the...handle...holder...thingy back."

 

Westchester 2030

They did not.

 

Westchester, June, 2024

"For a popsicle stick? Get another one from the big box under the craft table."

Barney lifts one hand to his forehead, closes his eyes and kneads. "It's not that kind of popsicle stick."

Robin's fingers itch. He's right. The handle of their popsicle was smooth plastic, with a loop on the end, not rough wood, the popsicle itself, too perfectly shaped to come out of a paper cup. Nope, that sucker came out of a specially designed mold. She should have known. Barney wouldn't use a regular wooden popsicle stick. Tongue splinters, according to him, are a real thing. She shoves him in the shoulder, hard. "You used Tracy's popsicle set to make spiked popsicles?"

"Ow." His eyes fly open. He rubs his shoulder. "What else was I supposed to use?"

"I don't know, literally anything else? It's summer. The kids are going to want to make popsicles at some point." Popsicles like their mom used to make. She cuts a glance at the bush. Maybe if she used the light from Barney's phone, and got down on her hands and knees, they'd have a shot at getting it back. That still wouldn't solve the problem of the other nine sticks, unless the two of them split the batch. Her head throbs at the mere thought of the hangover that would bring.

The glider frame creaks as Barney shifts in his seat. "It's not a big deal. I'll put them all back as soon as we're done with the popsicles."

"How soon is that going to be? We're only here two days a week. Even if we each had one every day we're here, that's still more than two months until they're all gone."

"So I'll buy another set. It's not a big deal."

 

Westchester 2030

It was a big deal.

 

Westchester, June, 2024

"First thing in the morning, you order a new set. Sent to your apartment, so Ted doesn't get any surprises. I mean it." Robin jabs Barney in the arm with the tip of her finger. For a split second, she wishes she had longer nails, so the jab would be sharper. She makes up for the difference with a pointed glare. "What were you thinking?"

  
One corner of Barney's mouth twitches. "I was thinking that spotting Luke on the monkey bars for two solid hours in this heat calls for," he broke off there. "Some things, you don't think. You just do, okay?"

"Like putting your arm around me at the movies?"

"Yeah." There's a long moment of silence, broken only by the drone of some courtroom drama coming frm a neighbor's television. "Was that okay?

Robin glances off at the light that flickers from the neighbor's window. "It was nice." Unexpected, but nice, with the weight of his arm on her shoulder, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin in the arctic blast of the air conditioning. Leaning into him felt natural, with all of that coming at her. Comfortable, even, for the three and a half seconds it took her to remember that they had Penny and Luke with them. She twirls her gold chain bracelet around her wrist. "The timing, though, not sure about that."  
Barney lets out a breath. "It was a very emotional moment in the film."

"For a cartoon lobster."

"We are all that cartoon lobster, Robin. All of us. That's the whole point of the movie. If we stick together, we can do anything. Even convince a Norwegian fishing fleet to reverse its course."

She fiddles with the clasp of her bracelet. She can't look at him now, can't face that look of utter sincerity in his eyes while he crams ninety minutes of movie into words that would make sense if she let them. She can't let them. So help her, if he says one word about the power of love, she's going to head straight for the basement freezer, shoes or no shoes, and suck down the entire batch of popsicles. No, she's not. _Journalist found dead of alcohol poisoning in basement of ex-boyfriend's Westchester home, film at eleven._ She can't chance that. "We can't be dating. Ted. Tracy. The kids."

"Ted ships us. Dude ordered us to kiss that first weekend. He locked us out here in a snowstorm. He'll be okay."  
She turns to look at him now, because she's going to vibrate straight out of her skin if she doesn't. "Will he? How can you be sure?"

His feet shift on the ground. "Truth? I can't, Ted's not going to be the same guy he was before he met Tracy. He can't ever be, and I don't mean only because of the kids, but he will be okay. When you and I split-"  
Robin hauls herself out of the glider. "That is not even close to the same thing." She raises herself up on bare toes, so she can peek over the hedge at the glow from the neighbor's TV. The colors are too bright for a cop show. Must be a commercial.

Barney's hand settles on her shoulder, a split second before his breath ruffles her hair. "It's not. Would you let me finish?"

Her heart thuds against her ribcage. If she lets him finish, then they'll have to talk, about everything. About the two of them, about mistakes and regrets and second chances. Crap, that sounds like Ted. The neighbor's TV goes dark. "Is this The Talk?"

"Yeah. I think it is."

The light in the neighbor's living room winks out. There's only the two of them now. "Fine, but I'm not doing this standing up." She stalks back to the glider, a heavy silence where a dirty joke ought to be.

He settles into the seat beside her.

 

Westchester, 2030

And that's where the lawn guy found them, the next morning


End file.
